


Just To Your Taste

by skerb



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: ?? - Freeform, ATTL-inspired, Cooking, Cuddling & Snuggling, Culture Shock, Dating, Denial of Feelings, Established Relationship, Gift Fic, Grocery Shopping, M/M, Red Has Feelings(tm), Sans/Underfell Sans (Undertale), Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Underfell Sans (Undertale), Undertale Monsters on the Surface, does this count as food porn, it certainly does for Red, pornographic descriptions of food, references to butchery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:47:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24263068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skerb/pseuds/skerb
Summary: Bday gift fic for Nilchance! Loosely based off their kustard boys from their series ATTL. Takes place at some nebulous time after the Main Conflict is wrapped up.Red's gained interest in online epicurean shows lately, but he doesn't cook. Sans can cook. They take a day out on the town, shop around and... Red might have some feelings about Sans 1) offering food to him, and 2) cooking said food for him.
Relationships: Kustard, Sans/Sans (Undertale)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 125





	Just To Your Taste

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nilchance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nilchance/gifts).



> content warning(s) in the end author's notes

He’s not sure why, but Red finds that there’s something inherently fascinating about watching human epicurean shows. It switches something off in his brain that’s normally on all the time, a smouldering primal urge to guard and attack, to rip and rend.

The human on the show is wearing armour. Chain mail, since what they’re working with is heavy and tough. Red’s eyes focus on the shots, leaning forward with morbid curiosity at the red washes and glinting sharp knives.

There were no animals in the underground where he comes from. Whatever did have meat turned to dust when they died. Anything that fell from the surface was either lavishly expensive, or not to be trusted. Blood is seen in fleeting moments in fights, roaring in his marrow in a flurried rush of adrenaline. He gets to see it at length when he’s hurt, or god forbid, if his brother’s injured. Or when some idiot decides to get too close.

Now? Instead of military formations, Red listens to ‘flank’ and is thinking about a thick cut steak.

That is, he’s now thinking that. Before, it was a lot of bone talk - femurs, chine and ribs. Red finds himself leaning forward, his eyes sharp and calculating as the human effortlessly separates meat from bone. There’s no hint of the judge in his mind. It’s just a job to the cheery human who proudly shows off their work.

There’s something oddly satisfying to see the butcher work their way through the meat. They’re skilled with their knife, using it as a tool to follow the natural seams where the fat streaks through, and separates muscle from bone. The joints of his spine tingle as the voiceover explains what they’re doing, gliding the tip of their knife close to the bone.

It’s oddly therapeutic in a way. Red goes tense, but he’s focused, curled on the couch with the laptop crooked open on his lap. It’s late at night - or rather, it’s early in the morning, by regular people’s standards. Sans is curled up next to him, a warm weight at his hip and a wet spot on his arm. The soft bastard’s way too comfortable around him. He’s been conked out for several hours, a light purr to his snores.

Which led him to this predicament, curled up on a quiet Wednesday night with the entire house to themselves. No one other than each other, and while he can’t sleep, Red wouldn’t change it for the world. It’s like Sans sleeps enough for the both of them, and protests in between dreams like he can sense the tension in Red’s body.

“How’re you still awake,” Sans mumbles, half asleep. He barely moves, but his skull twists up to see what Red’s watching with a few indignant blinks from the bright screen. Red can practically feel him cringe when his eyes adjust. “The fuck are you watching..?”

“`Bone Appitite`,” Red half-heartedly shrugs, because if he ever admitted to enjoying something in Sans’ presence, he’d get that mock-tease in his voice and Sans would never let it go. “Meat episode.”

Sans makes a vague kind of grunt in his throat. “Your magic sounds like sparklers.” It’s a soft observance, but the sound is something that anyone who’d gone through starvation would know. Sans pulls a small packet of dried fruit from his pocket and sleepily drops it onto Red’s laptop. “Eat somethin’.”

Red doesn’t entertain what it means for Sans to nonchalantly offer him food like this, but his magic pops off anyway, flooding his marrow to heat up his face. He grins to himself as Sans sinks down again, his cheek more onto Red’s thigh. He’s real good at faking sleep, to the point where the silence that follows nearly convinces Red that he’s dozed off again.

After a moment, just to make sure, Red opens the packet and shows a handful into his face. It’s warm from being in Sans’ pocket, made soft from his body. It’s proof that he’s getting better. Getting stronger.

It turns out, Red has feelings about that. True to form, he punches it down low in his soul just in case anyone is watching. His and Sans’ brother have gotten together for a workshop and they have the place to themselves. No one will have seen that, regardless if it didn’t show on his face.

Whatever. The fruit snack will tie him over until morning, when things will be open. The worst part about watching cooking shows in an endless stream is that he’s hungry and nothing’s open. It’s half past what the fuck in the morning, which means he can’t even get some poor asshole to stumble to any bars that might be open in hopes that there might be some fried wings to be had. The poor asshole would probably be Sans, or himself. He doesn’t want to get up.

But man, he _definitely_ wants steak.

He watches the video while Sans sinks back into slumberland. It’s very detailed, all curved knives and the nerve-spiking crack of bones forced out of their sockets. At one point there’s a bandsaw. It makes his mind suspicious about how humans operate on the surface for one thing. For another, it’s extremely efficient, but he doesn’t want to entertain the thought of being split up like that.

Sans lifts his head again, like he hadn’t been sleeping this whole time. “Dude.”

Red grins down at him, oddly indulgent. “Oh, am I keepin’ you up, sweetheart?” There’s a little tease that it could mean something else, but Sans just groggily rolls his eyes up at him.

Sans doesn’t even move. He glares at the assembly of butcher cuts on the screen and something in his eyes softens. Not much. It’s like realisation dawns upon him, and Red has a succinct feeling of understanding, support and indulgence. It’s the part of him that’s unguarded and curious, like having affection for each other is some unspoken taboo. But Sans still likes to treat him. He’s been known to treat him.

Red looks away to the last few minutes of the video in silence. Sans eventually slackens against him again, a hand at his hip curled around the flare of his ilium, his hands uncommonly warm. He looks damn good like that, Red’s mind traitorously observes.

Eventually, he gets tired enough to pull the crocheted blanket down from the back of the couch and closes the lid of his laptop. Red doesn’t curl against Sans, but the tension slowly bleeds from his body, like it’d been geared up to jump at any noise that might’ve sounded while he was concentrated on the video.

Oyster steak, flank steak, rib eye, brisket, chuck… God, he’s hungry. Maybe he’ll go wandering and end up at a charcuterie later in the morning, get some cold cuts to make a stacked sandwich or something. Maybe pile it up high and cut it in half… leave the rest on the counter. If Sans indulges him, hey, finders keepers. The amount of food one can just… go outside and _buy_ on the cheap is honestly scandalous sometimes, but Red isn’t complaining.

No, he’s not gonna. He’s going to sink down against his part of the couch and pull the blanket close over Sans’ shoulders and hold him near, but only because Sans is warm and Red thinks he feels a draft.

~

They’re curled up like kittens when Edge and Papyrus get back, moved in their sleep so much to find comfort in each other that Red’s body interlocks with Sans’. They’re both in the thick of it, comfort and sound relief when Edge checks in on them. They had mostly returned to make sure that the house didn’t burn down. Things are stable. Red cracks an eye open when he hears them shuffle about, both Papyruses attempting low voices as they leave.

It’s very unnecessary, but when Sans draws in a deep breath and pulls closer to Red in his sleep, Red can’t help but be grateful for the privacy.

The light of the late morning sun is a cruel bitch, and shines in from the windows unguarded. Fuck you, boss. Drawing open the curtains wasn’t called for. Still, it’s better than a barked order. Or even those spare few times his brother curls his hand under his jaw to run his fingers along Red’s face when he thinks he’s sleeping. Mushy fucking bastard.

He’s still hungry. His magic had burned through the sweaty handful of fruit snacks well into his sleep, and he’s tired but also starving. Like it’s a signal, Sans stirs again, using Red’s shirt to rub his drool off onto like he’s his living towel. And Red…

Well, maybe he’ll entertain that he doesn’t mind it so much. Since it’s Sans and all.

“Hey.”

A protective throb echoes in Red’s soul at the sleepy-easy way Sans greets him. He doesn’t move, but Sans hauls up a little bit so that they’re face to face - so that Sans has his dainty little rib cage pressed up against his shattered and healed mess. Red likes it, growls something pleased in equal grogginess.

“You look like shit,” Sans mutters after a moment of assessment. Red rolls his eyes, because it’s much too early for this shit, even if the clock on the wall says 11:59am.

“We have the same face,” Red grumbles, though not without venom.

Sans chuckles, a sleepy thing. It makes Red’s soul squeeze in that almost-painful way. “Yeah…”

“Good mornin’ to you, too,” Red rumbles. He thumbs down the back of Sans’ neck, watching as his eyes narrow like a cat who got the cream. He hears a little hint of a purr kick up in Sans’ throat, unbidden like he can’t hold it back. “Wanna go out wanderin’ today?”

Sans hums, and Red can feel his shiver when his fingertips glide over smooth bone. He’s still warm, and Red likes it. It means that Sans is healthy, strong - that he’s _his._

“Does this have anything to do with your lurid meat ogling at three in the morning..?”

So Sans remembers that, huh. Red doesn’t flush, but he feels both giddy and ashamed for being called out on it anyway. Sans hums again, sleepily, and curls into Red’s touch a little more, like he’s unashamed to show that he likes it. That sends off a few protective-possessive waves in Red’s soul, and Red doesn’t know how to address that. So he does the next best thing and doesn’t think about it. His fingers, on the other hand, continue their journey down to Sans’ shoulder blades.

“Maybe I just wanna sink my teeth into somethin’ soft, nice and slow,” Red says indulgently, in a way that makes another sneaky trail of shivers run down Sans’ spine. “Feel it give into my teeth, an’ taste it on my tongue.”

Sans laughs despite himself. There’s a little shockwave under Red’s fingers that betrays how riled up he’s gotten over a little cheeky whim and his exploratory touches. Blue magic sparks to life under his scarred fingertips.

“I know you’re jonesin’ for my pants-pork, but you saying that in the middle of a grocery store isn’t gonna fly.”

He’s too comfortable. Sans’ eyes are half-lidded, like a lazy Thursday morning is all they need to recoup from a long year through the wringer.

Too bad it’s now the afternoon and the prospect of wandering around in crowded streets is less and less appealing as time goes on. Red nevertheless groans in protest when Sans pushes himself up, his warm weight instantaneously missed.

“C’mon. We’ll go down to the old port today,” Sans just decides, like Red won’t argue with him.

Lucky for him, Red doesn’t.

It’s sunny with a cloud cover, so it’s not too warm, and Sans doesn’t bother too much with how he looks, but Red finds him oddly captivating anyway. He doesn’t know why today of all days Sans looks so totally inviting, but he finds himself indulgently following his shorter counterpart down the street to the train station despite Sans’ insistence that they don’t go the easy way. The easy way is always the best way. Colour Red intrigued.

Sans lingers close. He’s gotten good at catching Red off his game, but once or twice his arm bumps against Red’s in a way where a sneaky little thought worms into Red’s skull. About two finger bones negligibly brushed against each other, pinkies touching.

He doesn’t entertain it further, because that’s fucking stupid. Leave the mushy feelings to Sans and the boss on their own time. He’s got no business thinking that way.

The train ride is fine. While Sans keeps to himself, he takes the aisle seat so Red doesn’t bristle like a paranoid fuck every time someone steps into his personal space on the way past. Old habits are hard to kick, and don’t think he hasn’t already figured out that this is Sans’ way of keeping him calm in unfamiliar territory. He’s just as paranoid as Red is and twice the disaster, and Red would have him no other way.

There’s a drizzle of rain when they disembark the train downtown, making the air salty-sweet. It’s about a thirty minute walk from the station to the docks, but they’re not going that far. Instead, Sans’ grin is crooked as he walks in front of Red, trusting him to watch his blind spot as he saunters backwards easily. It’s like he’s savouring the day, keeping Red suspicious yet intrigued.

Welp, it’s working.

He’s on the verge of asking what the deal is when Sans finally stops, allowing Red to step into his personal space. It’s a space they share more frequently than ever, and Red finds himself grinning mere inches away from nuzzling Sans’ soft cheekbone.

“Heya, darlin’,” he murmurs, because if he was anything but a teasing prick, Sans probably wouldn’t enjoy this as much as he does. “You done leading me around by the leash?”

Boy, there’s a lot of nuance behind that phrase. How Sans feels about that is like a beacon, magic scalding up his throat and burning between his joints as though Red put on the filthiest praise. He’s glad he’s rubbing off on him - in more ways than one. Sans lights up so prettily.

“Shut up,” Sans just mutters in the way that lets Red know that he wins. He always does.

Red doesn’t miss the way Sans’ eye lights skirt to the side, gauging a few lingering humans who have kept away from their little display. But he also looks up to the large ornately carved sign that has pigs, oxen, cows and fowl in brightly painted decorations. Nearby is the smell of the docks and with it the fruits of the sea, but Red’s grin slips for a fraction of a second before it’s up again.

Ok, Sans is a sneaky shit, but Red’s at fault for dropping his guard around him in the first place. He’s brought Red to a shop just like in the video he had watched last night.

Sans shrugs away, but his gaze lingers on him for a moment longer, like he’s savouring his reaction. Then he steers away from Red, innocent as you please, and drops all pretense as he buries his hands into his pockets.

“C’mon, babe.”

Red snaps out of it, those two little words pinching at his soul. He doesn’t know if it’s ironic or not anymore, or if the irony is several times removed from its original meaning. But it’s starting to feel less and less like a joke lately, and Red doesn’t find himself fighting it as much anymore. The ‘babe’s have gotten more frequent as a result. He even says them back sometimes. His preferred treatment of using ‘sweetheart’ is less a mockery and more endearing than ever before.

Red’s grin quirks a little. He’s gotten soft.

Easily, Sans swings open the door and for once holds it open for Red instead of letting it slam shut in his face like a dick. Despite the touristy area, the shop isn’t all that busy, as it’s the down season. It’s usually packed in the mornings and evenings, when it’s time to cook. Sans knows how to avoid a crowd, which is fine with Red because the amount of people around him contributes to how tolerable he is. Which is rarely more than never.

Bringing Red to a butcher shop is kind of akin to watching someone look through a gem case, only instead of brilliant shiny stones, rings and bangles, different cuts of meat are on display behind the wide-angle case. Red doesn’t know what to do with himself apart from loiter near the entrance, sizing Sans up as his counterpart wanders a little aimlessly into the shop.

“C’mon,” he says again, the antagonising little shit.

Red sets his teeth in a grimace and squints at the person behind the case, who watches back with passive indifference. It sets Red on edge, a rod of tension holding up his spine. Again, the judge doesn’t whisper a word to him. It’s just a job. The knives behind the counter won’t be thrown at him, and he probably won’t feel a bandsaw run through his spine anytime soon.

He’s gonna sleep great later, hah.

So Red proceeds, slowly peeling his gaze away from the shopkeeper and to Sans, who stands in front of the case with a bunch of labels indicating what type of animal it is. As though conversationally, Sans rolls a shoulder. Red picks up on the nervous tick, but he can’t quite read why. Sans likes to throw him off sometimes.

“Elk used to fall into the underground,” Sans suddenly says, like it’s common knowledge that Red should know. “Sometimes goat. Mountain cats.” He seems to hesitate. “You?”

Red isn’t clear on what’s happening, but he doesn’t remember a lot of meat in his diet. “Not a lot. Mostly just rancid stuff, or stupidly expensive. Seemed a lot more trouble to get than it was worth, and even then you couldn’t trust it. Not by my experience, but once or twice. Maybe some rabbit. Upper-classholes got most of the good shit,” he mutters with a shrug. “Wasn’t missin’ much as far as I saw.”

Sans stares at the case, like he’s deciding whether or not to elaborate as to why he’s suddenly wanting to compare their ways of life. Then his gaze skirts off to the side again to glance at Red, and he grins. He scratches the back of his leg with his shoe. It really makes a show for what he’s offering.

“Ok. Pick something out.”

It’s likely not lost on Sans as to what he’s asking. There’s a reason why he doesn’t look at Red directly, and even though Red knows this world doesn’t share his culture, it still brings a flurry of emotion and trepidation to the table. To offer this kind of thing in public… welp, Sansy’s an asshole.

Still, Red likes the little grin at Sans’ teeth, like he knows he’s being an antagonising shit about it. Still, there’s something oddly sweet behind the gesture. It doesn’t make it easy for Red to look at the case, at all the cuts of steak, roasts and-

He about-faces and strides far enough so that Sans will stop giving him that cheeky grin. Red’s face is unnecessarily hot, and he doesn’t need Sans’ grin to broaden any more than it already has. He folds his arms over his chest, glaring a hole into the ceiling like it’ll give him mercy.

What if he _did_ entertain that request..?

“Need a minute?” the clerk helpfully asks, and Sans answers with a nonchalant, “Yeah, thanks,” because while he’s an asshole, he’s at least a _polite_ asshole.

Red preoccupies himself with the lines of products on the shelves that border around the shop. By his estimate, there are probably forty-thousand different jars of spices and rubs, salts and brines. There’s bright packages of pasta and glass bottles of homestyle barbeque sauce with the shop’s name on it in big bold letters. It’s not enough to keep Red from mentally weighing how much this fucking matters to him.

Red’s had a lot of meat since he and his brother turned up here, but old habits die hard and he’s stuck to the cheap stuff. Hamburgs. Hotdogs. Maybe some bacon. Chicken nuggets. Barely passable as edible, shit like that. Like he doesn’t trust himself not to fuck up and end up owing for more than he’s worth.

Double-digit priced cuts make him a little nervous, but Sans still patiently waits for him, like he’s calmly assessing Red’s small mental freakout over it all. He doesn’t back off. He doesn’t offer a way out.

Fine. If he’s going to be like that, then Red won’t budge either. He’ll turn it around on Sans, like he always does. Sans won’t get one iota out of him.

So he takes a step forward. Then another. As he approaches the display case, Red catches a peek of Sans’ grin quirk as he hears Red’s footfalls. He’s easy. Red just clicks his tongue, like it doesn’t affect him at all.

Still, he can’t push the words out.

“Nothin’ with bones, I imagine,” Sans offers under his breath. “Kinda weird for us skeletons to be suckin’ meat from bone, eh, guy?” The clerk doesn’t say anything, but they manage to look amused even through their grimace. Red finds a lewd grin creep up on him, but pays attention when Sans tilts his head just a fraction, like he’s referring to _him_ now. “Juiciest cuts are rib eyes if you like that. Or anything with lots of marbling.” Traitorously, Red’s mouth waters with the thought. “Leaner cuts lend more to marinades and seasonings if that’s more your jam.”

“Look at you,” Red all but croons, but Sans has his full attention. In all the time he’s known Sans, he’s never seen him make anything apart from some macaroni and cheese from a box. “You some kinda master chef?”

It’s Sans’ turn to colour, and _oh,_ that kicks something up in the dusty lining of Red’s psyche. He’s not sure why Sans’ embarrassment did that. Maybe it was bashfulness instead. God, it’s dumb. They’re both stupid.

“I don’t make a habit of it,” Sans says dismissively, like it isn’t a big deal.

Red’s starting to think that despite how relaxed and easy Sans holds himself that it is in fact a very big deal. More of one than he had originally thought.

He decides to flip it around. Some light teasing, just to test the waters. Red leans in a little to invade Sans’ personal space, lowering his voice just low enough to murmur, “When I said I wanted somethin’ soft to sink my teeth into, I meant your-”

Sans pushes Red’s face away with his hand, a brilliant blue. “Yeah, yeah…”

That’s a good reaction. Red’ll have to tease him about that later. And by tease he means sink his teeth into his collarbone and bruise it up real nice. Maybe leave a calling card high on his femur. Sans sighs out long and hard like Red’s testing his patience more than his boner. Red decides to make it a little more personal.

“You’re serious, aren’t ya?”

Sans doesn’t squirm, but Red can tell that he’s fidgeting in his hoodie pockets like he forgot to lock the safe to his emotions. For once, he’s an open book and Red can see it all as plain as day. Don’t have to look at his face to see that it’s everything Sans can do to show even the slightest hint that he _wants_ to be nice this time. That he’s actually nervous.

Maybe he thinks that Red will deny him. Offering food isn’t a thing in his culture, but there’s something special in it for the both of him for what Sans is offering instead. To _cook_ for Red, when he didn’t have to ask. When he doesn’t expect it at all.

In all honesty, it’s kind of touching.

In those spare moments between them, Sans sees a fraction of Red’s astonishment and clams up. The bars and walls slam back into place and he puts on the mask again.

“The clerk’s gonna think you’ve had a stroke,” Sans says, his hands resting firmly in his pockets. His fists look as heavy as barbells. “You want me to pick something I usually like?”

Carefully, Red swallows and eyes the case again. There’s a lot of dollars behind the glass. Fancy names, marbled meat, different sizes. Nah, the bones don’t look appealing. He’s not sure how Sans would fare with carving them for what he needs, and he’s not sure if he wants to see that.

“Whatever you want,” Sans adds under his breath as the minutes tick on. “Just name it.”

That’s cheating, and that’s usually Red’s game. There’s another throb of tender possessivity and stupid, stupid affection that surges within his soul. He quickly averts his gaze so Sans can’t see it.

“This’s dumb,” he complains, more to himself than to anyone in particular. “Ri-”

When he flicks his gaze up again, Sans’ grin has turned soft. Red can’t continue. The words lock in his throat. Sans wants to cook for him and wants to feed him, and it’s taking everything in Red’s twisted little soul not to outwardly scream at himself to say what he wants. It’s a quiet eruption, and Sans probably pretends not to see the volcano’s ultimate struggle.

“Rib eye,” he guesses, his grin tugging suggestively. God. Red’s soul twinges with how much he hates that Sans easily looks that way. “Good choice.”

With the simplest of praise, Red folds. He’s not sure how Sans has him wrapped around his finger from one little whim, but he remains quiet while Sans flags the clerk down to have a couple of cuts drawn up and weighed for him. Red definitely tunes out the price, as growing up with a scant food supply makes him wholly focused on how much he can get for what little he had.

He does realise that Sans isn’t generally this free with his money either. He grew up in similar - though not the same - conditions as he and Edge did. Sans has a stash the same as Red, but excuses gifts and frivolity with ‘I can always make more money’. He’s generous. Red thinks it’s stupid.

Now that he’s being gifted something, Red isn’t so sure anymore. Sans’ selection is paid for, wrapped in pink paper and handed over the counter in a red bag with a bright thank-you, and they’re on their way.

Red feels a protective need to hold onto their precious cargo as soon as they leave the shop, but Sans keeps the bag in his dainty little hands. When Red goes to grab it, Sans switches his grip, and Red nearly ends up grabbing his wrist.

Fuck holding hands, but Red’s agitated. He hopes that there isn’t any telltale flush on his cheekbones. Knowing his luck, there probably is. Sans’ grin is wide every time he glances at him. Seeing Sans so possessive of something with his magic’s colouring is making Red have one or three emotions over it.

“You’re a dick,” Sans says, not unkindly.

“And you’re a pussy,” Red automatically grins.

Sans winks from over his shoulder, resuming his earlier stride of walking backwards as they stroll down the street towards the train station. “Then I guess that’s why we don’t cum apart, eh?”

Red laughs.

~

Red kind of feels like he’s all over the place. His emotions are out of whack like he can’t quite figure Sans out, but at the same time there’s his own choke leash around his throat to keep him from going out of bounds. He stares at the back of Sans’ skull while they walk back to the house, still trying to puzzle out what’s happening.

Sans wants to cook for him. He _wants_ to do this.

It forms a nervous lob in his throat, and Red can’t even tease him about it, because what if it’s genuine? It’s stupid, and he kind of wants to see how far the con will go. Like he doesn’t believe Sans really wants this…

But that’s some hard denial he’s dishing out.

Red doesn’t trust himself to speak, but he follows Sans into the kitchen, because where else is he supposed to go? Words are trapped in his metaphorical gut, twisting around. The boss would send him looks for mentally squirming around like he is.

So Red sits down at the table. He leans back on the chair as Sans takes his prized possessions and sits them onto the counter. Red tries not to stare too intently, as there’s still a rod of tension around Sans that he can’t seem to shake.

See? They’re both idiots.

“You ever had steak before?” Sans conversationally asks, like he and Red haven’t been in each other’s back pockets for the past year and a bit. “I mean… Besides patties, I guess.”

Red shrugs, effortlessly keeping balance on the tilted chair with one foot. His eyes follow Sans around as he pulls a cast-iron skillet from under the cupboards by the stove. A few test clicks and the gas stove is lit, and the cast-iron pan is put onto it.

Red doesn’t know how to cook. Sure, instant noodles and boiled roots and whatever he could manage to find during their time underground, but he never got around to learning, preferring the easy way out and ordering MettBurgers and internally disbelieving how cheap everything was.

There’s a slow burning fascination that’s building up inside of Red as he watches Sans go. He pulls out potatoes, slicing them up thin. Onions, mushrooms and garlic are chopped up, and Sans minces up a sliver of something green and sets it aside. A pot goes onto another burner while the first one stays low.

Occasionally, Sans’ll go as though to rest his hand into the flat of the iron and Red’s soul jumps when Sans just tests the heat by hovering his phalanges above the hot skillet. It’s like he knows how to gauge, how to test the fire. He’s _that_ experienced.

Everything’s slow, there’s no rush. Red eventually sinks down so the chair’s no longer at an angle, but he can’t tear his eyes away from the sight. Sans hasn’t looked back once, and it’s mesmerising to watch him.

He’s going all out. He’s treating him again.

A guilty-indulgent feeling creeps its way into Red’s soul, and having picked up the tic from Sans, he rubs at his chest like a promising scratch ticket. Stupid fucking feelings. Though his face burns, he can’t bear to look away. He can’t keep the tangled knot in his chest from beaming brightly, a traitorous glow.

Sans doesn’t look at him. He’s in his own world. At one point, he takes off his hoodie so he can freely move and Red makes a point to glance away when Sans turns to put it on the free chair. Then he goes right back to the stove.

There are potatoes boiling, onions and mushrooms and garlic caramelising. Despite having an errant snack here and there, Red’s still hungry. _And_ he’s still fighting off what to feel.

There’s a lot of nuance to what’s happening here. Sans obviously knows how much of a deal it is. Red can’t even begin to describe how it agitates him, like it’s the single biggest thing apart from collaring the world has ever known. The smells that waft about the kitchen are a serenade to how it develops inside of him, and Red can nearly _taste_ it.

“Want salt on anything?” Sans asks over the soft hiss of the veggies. Red’s magic churns in protest, like addressing him was some faux pas. He doesn’t squirm, but he flicks the heel of his shoe up against one of the legs of the table and stares down at its clean surface.

“Whatever y’feel will be good.”

He hates how rough his voice sounds in that moment, like he’s scared to talk. It bites a little, a kickback to what Sans thinks he deserves. Like he trusts Sans to do good by him.

It’s dumb.

Sans lingers for a moment, like he’s going to say something further, but he decides not to address it after all. He goes back to the stove, using the wooden spoon he holds to lightly scrape against the pans.

Red sneaks a glance, and it’s just as Sans looks away.

_He saw that._

Maybe he should stop being a dick. Just this one time. He doesn’t know if he can hold it back, but Red honestly has limitations to how he acts around Sans. If he’s entirely honest with himself, yeah, he’d be more than upset if something happened to him _(again),_ but… it probably wouldn’t kill him to stop being a dick for five minutes.

Or, y’know. Until it did.

Red forces himself to relax. He doesn’t want to see that doubtful look pass over Sans’ face again when before he was so eager to please him. He should treat this like anything else Sans asks of him, even inside the bedroom.

It’s hard to separate the culture clash from each other, though.

Trying to save face as well as to lift the mood, Red leans back on his chair, stretching out. He can nearly touch Sans’ shoulder when he moves to the fridge to get some butter. Red takes that opportunity to get some points in.

“You’re gonna blow my mind, aren’tcha?” He winks for good measure, and the shock that passes over Sans’ face is a real treat.

There we go.

“It smells real good, Sansy,” he adds for good measure, pleased as punch.

Sans’ grin is a little crooked like he’s caught off guard, but he relaxes just a tad. It’s like Red’s hesitation and judgment was something that was throwing him off. Making him nervous? That’s not Sans’ style.

“You’re terrible.”

Red mockingly blows him a kiss, but he relaxes too. “You love it.”

That’s dangerous to say, but Sans’ grin quirks up a little more when he turns. A beautiful dusting of blue creeps up the back of his spine, so even if Red can’t see his expression anymore, he knows he got to him.

It’s too honest. Quietly, Red clicks his tongue. There’s a heady sweetness to the air, an earthen scent of root vegetables that he’s so used to. It’s comfort food, in a way. Restless for what that means, Red tilts his chair again, interested when he hears the crinkle of paper. Of the pink paper the steaks are wrapped up in.

He had avoided it in the shop, but he all but ogles it now. Fuck Sans, he chose something nice. He’s not sure how to process just how to fight off all the one-uppance Sans has on him suddenly, but Sans doesn’t look back. He’s minding his own business, lowering the heat on the gas burners so everything simmers sweetly. Negligibly, Sans flicks on the uptake fan, since it’s getting warm and steamy.

Red finds himself yearning to get up and to hover because he’s starving, but he plants his ass down and forces himself to simply watch from the table. Thankfully, Sans moves out of the way once he’s done unwrapping their food to butter the pan, which lands onto its hot surface with a bright sizzle.

The cuts are thick, maybe an inch and a half, and a gentle crack of fat ribbons throughout each red steak like a river. They don’t have the same pattern but even as they are, they look delicious.

It seems that now is when Sans hesitates. Red can see it lock into his shoulders, and he’s doing that thing where he scratches his leg with his foot again. Carefully, because his brain is still a live wire and he’s not so sure of himself in this situation, Red pushes himself off the chair and slowly approaches the counter space next to the stove.

He slides easily into Sans’ personal space, his hand finding his hip. It sits there so naturally, and Sans doesn’t even shrug it off. He just grins to himself, and Red can’t help but return it.

“C’n I watch?” he purrs, like he’s just caught Sans with his hands down his pants.

Sans snerks despite himself. “You say that like it’s my meat in my hand, not some…” He shrugs, because it’s like Red got under his skin in that moment and he had a change of heart about being an asshole. “Yeah. Knock yourself out.”

Red’s grin sharpens. Now that he’s got a birds-eye view of the show, he unhands Sans’ hip so he can work. Sans tests the heat of the pan again with his fingers, then slowly brings the steaks over to lay them down into the thick of it.

Red nearly groans when the first hits the searing pan with an audible crackle. Sans’ pause is very deliberate, because that sounded pornographic as all hell. Flustered, he just says, _“Dude.”_

“What’s wrong, Sansy?” Red croons unapologetically. “Got performance anxiety?”

Sans scoffs lightly, but his face burns anyway. “Fuck you,” he says without any real heat.

“I would, but I’d rather you feed me your meat.”

There’s no amount of brow waggles that Sans isn’t used to, at least not since having met Red. So he just rolls his eyes and keeps his grip on the handle, just in case Red has any funny ideas.

It doesn’t take long for the butter to caramelise and for the sweet, heady scent of their early dinner cooking to lull Red’s senses into overdrive. Sans doesn’t profane the pan in anything but the butter, which mingles with the fat as it cooks and renders. He uses a spoon to ladle the juices over them, scent and simmer filling both of their senses.

After a long moment of Red just watching him, Sans admits something very quietly, like it’s a sudden observance. “Haven’t done this in a long time.”

Red reads between the lines, because hey, why not. It’s either that Sans’ confidence is shot, which is a constant relatable mood, or he’s trying to brush off how clumsy he is, which Red doesn’t find in the slightest. Sans’ movements seem practised while still being slow. It’s measured and easy.

It’s Sans.

And it’s sweet that he’s trying to keep up conversation.

“What, no conquest to stir up my virgin emotions?” Sans taunts, as though Red’s silent answer to that was to be a prick. Red’s too busy picking up signals, jarred and half-hidden the longer he’s quiet. He just wants to watch. He just wants Sans to cook. “You’re peepin’ me like a creep.”

Red just indulgently lets him talk shit as Sans takes a pair of tongs from the drawer between them, grinning daringly. He doesn’t move, watching Sans’ lithe fingers search out what he needs. “Keep it up, sweetheart. I can’t wait to have a taste.”

Sans’ cheeky grin drops for a moment, and he stops. Then, like it didn’t happen, he just says, “Ok,” and turns one of the steaks over.

Red wins, and his precious reward is making Sans feel slight unease in his own element. The meat sizzles, wafting delicious aroma between them so much that Red can practically _taste_ it.

When Sans has had enough of Red in his bubble, he gives him a light shove out of the way and mutters something under his breath. Something about Red’s sick burns and how they’ll ruin their good dinner. It’s a goddamn delight that Sans isn’t even hiding it, that it’s their dinner and they’re going to have it _together,_ and it’s going to be awesome, and not just for glorious food porn points later.

There’s nothing quite like having food cooked for you, Red thinks as he’s pushed, again, towards the table. He’s excited to savour this at length, to feel soft meat touch his tongue without having to worry about where it’s been or how much it’ll cost him. Sans doesn’t ask for a damned thing. If anything, Red’ll give him the best blowjob of his life if he really felt obligated to ask for anything.

There’s no hint as to what Sans will want later. He seems perfectly capable of doing this on his own. He nudges Red further towards the table so he can time the cooking in relative peace, while his counterpart all but drools all over the goddamn table.

Sans goes as far as to bring out a couple cans of cold beer, sets them on the table along with the napkin caddie, though Red’s sure it’s just for dramatic effect. He can’t help but curl his hands into fists as he twists to see what Sans does, eager to eat. Eager to taste what Sans has made for him.

God, he’s gotten easy.

Red can feel a spike of adrenaline when the gas switches click off, a blaring signal that everything is cooked and ready to eat and _fuck, he’s so ready for this._ There’s still the sizzling sweetness in the air, a heady metallic tang as he’s made to wait. He absolutely does not look when he hears the light knock of wooden utensils on pans and plates. He tries not to fixate on the sounds, as pornographic as they are, of Sans squishing the potatoes into mash.

He’s sitting still. He’s being good. Why the _fuck_ that came into Red’s head, he’ll never know. Anxiously, he flicks his gaze to his shoulder when Sans invades his space, a plate in each hand.

“I draw the line at cutting it up for you,” Sans mutters, though there’s an amused glee to his voice that Red has only heard on a rare occasion. It does stupid things to his soul. Quickly, those kinds of thoughts are immediately extinguished when his plate is set down in front of him, utensils poking out from under the pile of food like hands on a clock.

It glistens. The waft of steam hits Red’s face and _oh,_ ok, he might actually cry about this later. His soul seizes in a way that’s almost worrisome, and he’s dumbstruck as he simply stares at the food on his plate.

It’s nothing fancy, but it was made by _Sans_ and Red can’t help but feel oddly touched about the whole thing. It’s less of an effort to simply throw potatoes into boiling water without peeling them, and Sans has squashed them down with a fork instead of in the pot. The onions and mushrooms positively gleam, heaped onto half his steak like a blanket of sweet deliciousness.

The steak. Is goddamn. Perfection. The whole plate glimmers, but the sheer sight of it makes Red’s mouth water.

He tries not to look _too_ worked up about it as Sans slides across from him. “You want me here?” Sans asks, and Red looks up, stunned.

_Two drinks, an awesome dinner, alone in their house… kind of like a-_

“Or would you rather me sit next to you like we’re siblings? Uh, ship’s sailed whether that changes the dynamic or not, but,” Sans trails off, but he props up his elbow on the table to rest his chin on his hand. Like he’s waiting for Red’s rebuttal. “I figured I’d ask anyway, since you look pretty shell-shocked, heh.”

Fuck you, Red wants to say, but he’s still staring at his plate. He’s not sure if it’s because of the heat of the meal, but his face feels flushed like he can’t control it. He swallows hard, then looks up.

It takes him a moment to recover, but by then, he’s already seen a flash of something deeply pleased in Sans’ eyes.

He can’t even say “wow” like he wants to. It’s stuck in his throat. Red tests whatever combination of words that his brain throws his way, like he’s gotta chew them bit by bit before they’re surrendered to Sans. He opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. He closes it again.

“Wow, you really are stroking out on me,” Sans teases lightly, but he’s not quite looking at Red either. There’s a hint of magic between his joints, flushed prettily like he hopes that Red can’t see. “It’s edible, by the way. I swear I didn’t jack off into it when you weren’t looking.”

That snaps Red out of his daze. There’s all kinds of things he could say to that, but the grin that creeps up on him is full and excited, like being given permission was the last straw in how hard he’s kinking out over this. He swallows one last time, moving to pluck the knife out from under the steak and the fork from under the potatoes. He’s not sure what the green stuff Sans put on the steak, but it looks decorative, so he avoids it.

The meat is tender and juicy, rich and vibrant where the knife slices through. The crisp outside gives under the blade, and it’s so soft that the serrated edge just licks through it like it’s nothing. It’s certainly an experience, and Red spikes the first piece with his fork, ready to taste heaven.

While there’s no full-blown smack of intent, there is something definitely there, almost as though it’s wanting to be known, yet so tentative to be unveiled. If Red wasn’t so experienced at bottling up his emotions, he’d be able to name it beyond sharp fondness and longing. The taste is beyond describable, wet and hot, a touch of sweet butter and the richness of the flavour is something Red can’t put a finger on. He’s never had something so rich, so delicious. He inhales through his nasal aperture like he was stabbed instead, his eyes closed and his senses into overdrive.

Fuck, it’s really good.

Red’s almost at a loss when his magic latches onto the piece to absorb it. He just wants to hold it in his mouth for a bit longer. He doesn’t want to give the feeling up. But as his magic works, it makes every fibre of his being tingle when it floods his body, and with it more complex intent ripples into his mind.

Slowly, Red curls his toes, rising where he sits. He almost whimpers.

“Yeah..?” Sans’ voice says softly, a little hoarse.

It takes Red a moment to get out of whatever he’s doing to nod slightly, his grip sliding from the knife.

“Need a minute?”

Red remembers to breathe again, and with such brutal honesty, he moans, “It tastes fuckin’ good, sweetheart.”

It’s like Sans doesn’t know how to react to that. He hasn’t even begun to touch his food. Red looks across the table at him, at how deeply pleased about everything that he seems. His grin quirking in a sublimely satisfied way, Red portions off another bite of the steak, his hunger suddenly awakening with a vengeance.

Sans just brushes it aside slightly, mumbling, “It’s just one bite, dude.”

“I’m finished,” Red says after his second bite. He’s got the piece of steak wedged between his molars so he can savour it. “I’m gonna die. Goodbye.”

“Fuck off,” Sans chuckles quietly, then looks down and picks at his potatoes. “It’s not too bad, I guess.”

“You’re doin’ yourself a disservice, man,” Red suddenly interrupts. More of that brilliant blue scalds up Sans’ throat. “You don’t understand. I can’t go back to regular shitty food after this. You’ve _ruined_ me.”

Sans just grins to himself, then helps himself to his own dinner. “Well, shit,” he says affectionately.

It’s dangerous to say things with that amount of underlying emotion. Red’s eyes narrow, but it’s not with calculation or suspicion. It’s like the jagged little knife in his hand twists inside of him, uncorking the bottle that makes him _feel things_ as opposed to lashing out. Whereas it would mean big trouble for anyone else, seeing Sans indulgent and sweet keeps catching him in the thick of it.

Despite his announcement, Red tries the mushrooms and onions next. Then a forkful of potato. Everything is perfect on its own, complementing the natural flavours with the sauce of the veggies and the juicy tenderness of the meat. Red doesn’t think that he’s worthy of such care and attention, certainly not from _Sans._

He glances up in time to see Sans discreetly look down to his own plate. Maybe he wants feedback? Red is more than happy to oblige him, and he doesn’t even have to fake it. The low purr that’s starting to kick up is rumbly and light, echoing how he feels about the whole meal.

“I c’n tell you’re eager to please me, Sansy,” he begins low, and Sans bristles with the familiar sensual tone. “An’ don’t you worry… I plan on savourin’ every bite.” To prove his point, Red makes a soft noise when he slips another mouthful between his sharp teeth, like something else happened instead. Sans colours a little more. Maybe he’s starting to regret giving Red all this ammunition, but he doesn’t say a word.

So naturally that means Red has to continue.

“You spoil me,” he says, which is about as close to a thank you that Sans will ever get. He curls an arm around his plate like someone might think to take it from him. If they tried, Red would make them bleed, in all honesty.

Despite how much he wants to keep flustering dear Sansy, Red’s finding it more and more difficult to continue acting out his delight when he’d rather just enjoy the meal in relative silence. He wants to savour it all, experience it bite by bite, peek at Sans while his throat traitorously gives a soft trill.

Sans gives in to a soft chuckle, but he nearly makes the same noise. It’s always kind of endearing how he’ll purr back when Red gets going, like oh, ok. It’s ok to do that after all. He relaxes that way and reaches over to crack open Red’s beer. Takes a swig of it. Then he opens his own and sets it down.

Red’s grown fond of this cheeky bastard, and it only grows the more he watches Sans enjoy himself. It’s like he knows that he’s won this round and that Red’s quiet enjoyment is a tantamount pleasure and reward for the both of them.

Maybe, Red thinks, Sans tolerates him in the same way.

**Author's Note:**

>  **content warning(s):** in depth descriptions of a butcher working over an animal carcass for educational purposes, reference to past food insecurity/starvation
> 
> I had an idea while watching a "Bon Appétit" video that showed how to butcher half a steer and it was very interesting!! And thought that Red would find it interesting too. And maybe Sans would know how to cook, but he figures it's too much effort to cook. But he'll do it for Red :D
> 
> I got this silly hc that most, if not all, monsters are at least vegetarian in some form since a lot of their meals don't "look/taste" like meat in-game, but that's probably me thinking about it too much. I'm not sure if snails are exactly veg-friendly but ah well. :))
> 
> Anyway happy birthday, nil!!!!! ILU!!!!!! ♥ Keep being an awesome person and a great friend!! ♥


End file.
